


Revebjelle

by Laughter



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughter/pseuds/Laughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>18 years before the events of Helgen, Kodlak Whitemane discovered a feral child in the wilds of the Reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Journal entries were written eighteen years before the events in Helgen. Main story takes place two years before the events of Helgen.

 

　

3rd of Second Seed, 4E 183

_Vignar and I were passing through the wilds of the Reach, heading East toward home after a successful— and lucrative— job out near the mining towns around Markarth when we discovered a feral child hiding in a thicket like a fawn._

_A little girl, naked a babe and not much more than one— she cannot be more than three or four years old. Starved nearly to bones, she was, but that didn’t make her easy to catch! Vignar and I looked like clumsy fools, blundering into one another and tripping over our own boots trying to grab the wild little creature, who was running on all fours and snarling and spitting at us like a sabre cat cub. When we finally did manage to grab her, she thrashed and chomped like a slaughterfish. I held her down while Vignar wrapped a blanket around her and we trussed her up in it with rope._

_Then, while she lay bound, thrashing and howling on the ground, Vignar and I— both of us no longer young— sat trying to catch our breath and wondered what in Oblivion we were supposed to do with her now that we had her!_

_She is a Nord child, this one. Not a native’s child. Pale skin, thick of bone. Large golden eyes, so huge in that starved face of hers. Her hair is matted into little balls on her head._

_Vignar and washed our bite wounds and after a brief discussion we decided to set up camp and carry the child to Markarth in the morning, though I have grave doubts that there would be a home and family waiting for her return._

　

6th of Second Seed, 4E 183

_A few days have passed since we found the feral child, and I was proven right. Neither the people of Markarth nor those of nearby steads and mining towns knew anything about the child, and most after taking one look at her, glowering and snarling from within her blanket, wanted nothing to do with her. With the Foresworn and the bandits and the wilderness itself, tragedies happen every day, the people of the Reach told us. She might have been a child of passing trader or a caravan, or a survivor from a Foresworn attack on one of the farms, or simply just abandoned by relatives who couldn’t feed her._

_I had had small hopes of finding anyone who knew the child. Vignar had the good idea of taking the child to the Hag’s Cure in Markarth, where Bothela dosed the child with a potion that made the little one calm and drowsy. The old woman is the only person we’ve met so far who is sympathetic to the child. While the little one was subdued by the potion, Bothela gave her a bath and, as the matted hair was beyond saving, shaved her head down to the skin._

_For the first time, I was able to feed the child properly as well, as it was easier to spoon broth into her mouth without worrying about her trying to bite me._

_Bothela gave me a small bottle of the potion she used to gentle down the child, with very firm instructions to only put two drops in a broth and have her drink it only twice a day. “You don’t want to poison her or burn away what little mind she has,” the old woman warned me._

_I will be careful to heed her words. For now it is enough that the child’s struggles have ceased and her ferocity has eased. I no longer have to carry her tied up in a blanket under my arm like a sack of flour. Now she’ll follow me when I lead her by hand. We have made a crude harness, which we’ve fitted around her chest and torso to keep her from taking off the little tunic Bothela gave to us to clothe her. She seems to hate the feeling of the cloth on her skin, and we sometimes catch her gnawing on the fabric when she thinks we aren’t looking._

_While I was feeding her this night, I noticed that the stubble growing on her head and the fine hair on her arms and legs are reddish-brown. Like the pelt of a fox._

　

　

　

20th of Mid Year, 4E 183

_This feral child has taking a liking to me, likely because she eats well, and all that she eats comes from my hand. Or is there a chance that I remind her of someone she knew before she was lost or abandoned in the wilds? She has grown to trust Vignar enough to feel safe with him, though she does not show the same eagerness when he comes near as when I do. She is still fearful around others, and will react violently unless she has had some of Bothela’s potion._

　

　

　

3rd of Sun‘s Height 4E, 183

_I must write of my dream._

_Vignar has been hinting in his unsubtle way that we have lingered too long in Markarth. I understand; we are spending a good portion of the gold we made on our last job in room and board at the Silverblood Inn. His grumblings have been kept to a minimum and his hands have been gentle when helping to deal with the feral child, signs of how much his heart has gone out to the unfortunate little one, but he doesn’t have much good will toward Markarth and I know he’s eager to return home._

_Yet the question of what to do with the child is unanswered._

_Last night, Vignar stayed up late telling his tales to a rapt audience of mine workers by the inn’s fires, and I readied the child and myself for bed in our room. She has taken to sleeping curled up next to me on the stone bed, and although I’ve feared I might roll on her or knock her off, I’ve been reluctant to discourage her because her growing trust in me is still so fragile._

_The dreams that took hold once I had fallen asleep were full of exploding fire, splintering ice, cries and screams, and the rage of battle._

_A woman was at the center of it. A Nord woman who scythed through foes like grass. In all my years as a warrior and with the Companions, I had never seen a warrior her equal. What she may have lacked in bodily strength by being a woman she made up for in sheer speed and agility, and even so she wielded a great battleaxe as though it weighed no more than a simple wooden quarterstaff. No movement she made was wasted, every step, every strike, every block, every counter was a follow-through from the move before. There was a grace in her strength, a beauty in her movement that made her seem to be dancing here, in the midst of furious combat._

_The waves of enemies either fell before her might or fled in terror of what happened to those who came before them. At last this woman turned to me, grume dripping from the blades of her axe. She removed her helm and I saw her eyes were vibrant gold, and her long, wild hair was reddish-brown, like the pelt of a fox._

_When I awoke, the child still slept peacefully, unaware of my dreams. Yet, shortly after I got up to pen down my dream, the child untangled herself from the blankets where I’d wrapped her and came to me where I sat with my book and pen. The medicine makes her drowsy and wobbly on her feet, but she climbed determinedly into my lap, seeking warmth and comfort._

_I feel the weight of her in my lap, see her staring with sleepy eyes as I scratch my pen across the pages. I am not a poet. My heart is filled with an emotion that I have no words to describe._

_Years ago, one of our own, Jergen brought two boys back to Jorrvaskr and raised them as his own until he left to fight in the Great War. As I sit here, I contemplate doing the same now, with this child I have found. Vilkas and Farkas were very young when Jergen left, and Tilma and I assumed the responsibilities of raising and guiding the boys. But they were Jergen’s sons, and through time and distance and fiery heart, they have always carried something of their father with them. Though I hope that if I decide to do as Jergen, I would live to raise this child to adulthood myself._

_My dream. Am I to believe that it portends that this child— this tiny, boney, bald child who bites people and does not know how to use a chamber pot or wipe the snot from her nose— is to someday become that blazing warrior I saw deep in the mists of my slumber? Or were they fancies spun in my mind to give me the excuse I need just as I’m faced with a achingly difficult decision?_

_…No. I know in my heart there is no doubt that my vision reflects a great truth._

_I am glad that my heart is resolved, because of all the questions I might have, there is one truth I know for certain._

_Skyrim is not kind to orphans, and will be especially cruel to this one. If do not take this child with me, I would be forced to take her to Understone Keep and place her with the Jarl’s steward. She is too wild for me to believe in the likelihood that those to whom she is given will use gentle patience and foster her trust rather than use frequent beatings to civilize her and teach her obedience. There will be joyless years spent in an orphanage, or she might be taken in by a farm or a household to spend her youth mucking stables or working as a kitchen drudge._

_The child has fallen asleep as I’ve written these pages, her little bald head on my shoulder. My insides twist in dread at the thought of leaving Markarth without her. My heart swells at the thought of leaving Markarth in the morning with her riding on my shoulder._

_The only question that needs to be asked, is do I have love for this child in my heart, having known her for only a short time? The answer is, I do._

　

　

　

　

4th of Sun‘s Height, 4E 183

_Vignar and I are preparing to leave. I told him of my decision to take the little one with us. My old friend is strong in his opinions and unafraid to voice them, but as I told him this he only nodded and held his peace. I’ve never seen a man looked both resigned and relieved at the same time. I am not certain which surprises me more, that it seems Vignar knew what I would do before I knew myself, or how clear it is that he did not want to abandon the child at the Keep either._

_We will set out as soon as Vignar returns from the general store with some traveling clothes for the child and a pair of shoes, assuming we can convince her to wear them._

_I have picked a name for my daughter. It is an ancient Atmoran name I saw recorded in a book once, a name that seems right for this child because it means “dreams” or “visions”. I name my child—_

　

　

　

“Aeyslinn!”

Startled, the young woman jumped, nearly dropping the small, leather-bound journal she was holding. Guiltily, she looked at Kodlak, who stood in the doorway of their quarters with his arms crossed over his chest. He fixed her with a stern eye for a moment before holding his hand out for the book.

Aeyslinn handed it over. She was a cool-headed girl for the most part, and the only sign of shame for having been caught reading his private writings was a slight flushing of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Papa. I was only looking for where I’ve mislaid my greater Soul Gems, and I found this book I didn’t recognize. I didn’t realize at first that it was a journal.”

Kodlak raised an eyebrow. “And yet after you _did_ realize it was a journal, you felt the need to read several of the pages.”

Her mouth twitched in an attempt to smile, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Kodlak tossed the old journal on his bed, and pulled his daughter into his arms for a hug. “I’m not angry, my girl. Those who don’t want their thoughts known shouldn’t be foolish enough to write them down. Or foolish enough to toss the book carelessly under their bed after writing in it last night instead of locking it back in the drawer of their side-table as I did. And you are not recovered and should be in bed, not looking for Soul Gems.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Papa.”

He kissed the top of her head and gently steered her toward her bed.

Aeyslinn had always lived with Kodlak in the Harbinger’s quarters, ever since he first brought her to Jorrvaskr. His quarters were not spacious, consisting only of a study and a bedroom, but he had removed the small table and chair that had been in the upper left corner of the bedroom and crammed in a small bed, wardrobe, and chest for his child’s clothing and possessions. As she had grown a little and learned to talk, he added another desk in the study for her, where in the evenings after supper he taught her to read and write and do sums and later, once these basics were mastered, lessons in history and lore. When she had passed her trial at around fifteen summers old, he had suggested she might enjoy the freedom of staying in the living quarters with the other Companions instead of in here with her old man. It was an offer he had made with a heavy heart; though he knew she was only moving down the hall, he believed that this would be the time when he had to let go after keeping and protecting her for so long, and it would be the end of so many of the rituals the two of them had developed as a family. No more kisses hello and good night, no more after-supper lessons, no more nighttime stories. Yet, to his complete shock, she had become slightly upset by the suggestion. Aeyslinn was mild and reserved in the way she showed her emotions, so for her to become upset at all was enough to make him withdraw the idea.

When she was inducted into the Circle a couple of years later he had warily made a slightly different offer of setting her up in her own private quarters such as other members of the Circle enjoyed. A little more matured since the last time, she had only glanced up from where she was reading at her desk and said, “No, I’ll stay with you, Pa,” and went back to her book.

And that had been the end of it. Now, at somewhere around nineteen years of age (as near as Kodlak could guess, having no way of knowing exactly when she was born), she was still content to continue living with her father.

Kodlak found himself to be content with the arrangement too, and tried not to worry about his daughter’s deviation from the normal behavior of youth. The fact was that even though Aeyslinn no longer had the memory of living in the wilds, that time had left its mark on her. In subtle ways, perhaps, but the mark was there.

The Harbinger settled her into bed and pulled the blankets up around her. “Danica said two weeks of bed rest.”

Aeyslinn sank into the pillow, but fixed her father with a stern expression of her own. “Pa, this is becoming borderline imprisonment.”

“Nonsense, Little Fox.”

“You had Farkas and Aela take away all of my clothes, my boots, and my weapons,” Aeyslinn pointed out, her gold eyes darkening reproachfully.

Kodlak rubbed his chin to hide a smile. He had indeed had Aela and Farkas come in quietly while Aeyslinn had slept in fever and remove her footwear and gear, leaving her with nothing to wear but a couple of warm cotton nightgowns. He had to admit to himself it might have been an extreme measure, but it could be quite a trial to keep Aeyslinn here when she had a mind to leave, and she wasn’t likely to go far unarmed, barefoot, and clad only in her sleepwear.

“I also know you have everyone watching me like hawks,” she added.

Kodlak nodded, completely unrepentant. In truth, he hadn’t even needed to give the word. The Companions, many of whom had been here to watch Aeyslinn grow up, knew her ways and had set themselves up as sentries, pretending to go about their daily routines but in truth watching to make certain their wild child didn’t try anything clever. Kodlak had even noticed that all of the money pouches that sometimes lay around untouched in the hall of the living quarters had quietly vanished. The Companions, who did well in their vocation as mercenaries, normally didn’t mind sharing amongst themselves, but at present there was the danger that Aeyslinn might find a gap in their vigil and slip out with a couple of those purses and purchase clothing and a sword or a dagger off Belethor or Adrianne Avenicci on her way out of the city.

“You’re not leaving the mead hall, and that’s final,” said Kodlak in that deceptively mild tone that always made his daughter sit still and pay attention. “You will rest until Danica deems you are well.”

“I was only poisoned, Papa, and it’s run its course.”

“What did I just say?” he asked in a slightly sharper tone.

Her shoulder slumped and she sighed. “You said I will rest until Danica deems I am well.”

Kodlak nodded sternly, but had trouble keeping himself from laughing when she said, with a slight quirk at the corner of her lips that showed this was a jest rather than an actual lamentation, “As a Companion, I am unfortunate in that while there are no leaders among us, a young woman must obey her father.”

He smoothed her long, auburn hair. “Listen, Danica and Arcadia said this was an especially sinister poison within you, and that the effects would come and go. I know you feel fine now, but she assured us that the weakness and the pain will return. You _must_ stay here until she tells us that it truly has run its course. Think for a moment. A crew of bandits waiting at an ambush on the road would ordinarily be nothing to you, but what are your chances if they attack at a time when the fevers are on you again?”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes locked with his. Then she said, “I grow bored lying in this bed all day. If you won’t let me up, then can you at least help me keep my mind occupied?”

That reminded Kodlak of something. “Why were you looking for Soul Gems? There was not a single chance I was going to allow you to climb the steps of Dragonsreach to use the arcane enchanter.”

Again, there was the slight flush on her cheeks, and she cleared her throat softly before answering. “I, ah…I was going to use them as skittles. I made a ball out of a cloth and a raven’s skull, and I was going to pitch it at the Soul Gems to see how skillfully I could knock them over.”

This time Kodlak did laugh. “You _are_ bored, aren’t you? I will send someone out to see if there are any new books to be had in town. And see if some of this drunken rabble can’t pry themselves away from their mead to visit you more often. I’ll haul a bard in here to sing and tell you stories if I have to. Just please stay in bed, Aeyslinn. Must I make you promise?”

Aeyslinn agreed at last. “I’ll rest, Papa.”

“You’ll _stay_ that _that_ bed,” he pressed. Too often in the past Aeyslinn would find a gap in his instructions and then later protest that she hadn’t actually disobeyed. To promise that she would “rest” could mean to rest _anywhere_. Like an inn in the next Hold.

The corner of her mouth twitched again in another almost-smile. “ _Yes_ , Papa.”

Kodlak ruffled her hair in approval. He did not add that he had every intention of keeping her within the walls of Jorrvaskr even after she was well, until they found out who had tried to kill her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Krev the Skinner was awakened by the sunlight piercing through the broken roof of the decrepit farmhouse she had chosen for shelter the evening before. The Redguard climbed out of the pile of furs that had served as her bed and stretched naked in the morning light.

It had rained— again— yesterday and Krev had already decided that Falkreath was no place to establish a new base for the Silver Hand. A couple of days spent in this Hold and she quickly tired of wet clothing and muddy boots.

She popped her back and rolled her shoulders, limbering up before she began to cast about for wherever she had thrown her armor last night.

The Silver Hand had swollen in numbers much faster than she could have imagined. Already she’d had to split her forces into two separate camps, because small groups of vigilantes drew less notice than an army of them. A keep or a fort was needed. As it happened, Skyrim was littered with abandoned constructs and Dwemer ruins that would make a suitable base for her organization. All she had to do was scout out one with a good strategic position, defensible and secluded.

There was a muttering in the corner that she tried to ignore. Tried to ignore most mornings, in fact.

Her second-in-command, Ranon, knelt in the shadows of the deteriorating house clad in nothing but his breeches, having a quiet, one-sided conversation with a black Soul Gem and a small wooden doll with its face and hair long worn off.

Krev watched him for a while, pulling on her leggings. This Nord was everything the Skinner wanted in a second. He was a competent, intelligent man, neither old nor young, experienced in the ways of hardship and battle, and had absolutely no ambition whatsoever, leaving her with nothing to fear about shifting loyalties or having her position as leader usurped.

His madness only manifested itself in the mornings when he woke up and sometimes just before he went to sleep at night (unless Krev called him to her bed and occupied his time with other matters) and it usually lasted no more than half an hour. Half an hour of talking to the Soul Gem, which he seemed to believe held his dead wife’s soul, and holding and cooing to the doll that belonged to the child lost along with her. Krev never overheard the name of Ranon’s woman in his mutterings, but she did know the doll’s name was Revebjelle. Krev assumed this had also been the name of Ranon’s dead child. They didn’t talk about it, only rode it out like rough weather.

The Redguard was dressed and armored by the time Ranon snapped out of it at last. As it always did, the madness drained from his strange, bronze-colored eyes, leaving a haunted emptiness as he put the dark Soul Gem and the doll away into a pouch at his hip.

Seeing him truly awake, she went to him, making her footsteps heavier than usual so as not to startle him, and rested a hand, not unkindly, on his shoulder.

“Let’s break our fast, Ran.”

He nodded and rose to his feet. He shuffled to their packs and gear where he pulled on his boots before rummaging for a pot and a couple of bowls.

“We’ll head northeast, near Windhelm,” Krev said, settling down to business. “There are some old forts there I might like the look of. We might have to clear out any bandit squatters to get a good look at the interiors.”

“As you wish,” Ranon grunted, unwrapping an assortment of carrots, leeks, onions, and potatoes. He ate nothing but meat and vegetables, never bread or fruit or sweets or cereals or even cheese. This was the lesser of his oddities, and like the madness, something Krev chose not to remark on or talk about.

“I can’t wait to get this business of finding a new home for our band finished so we can get back to the hunt.” She caressed the hilt of her skinning knife fondly.

Ranon, chopping vegetables into the empty pot, spoke around a piece of carrot held in his teeth. “You could be hunting werewolves now. Why didn’t you send scouts from camp to seek out a fort for the Silver Hand?”

The truthful answer to that question was that Krev wanted to distance Ranon from the Hand for a short while. Not because of the madness— only _she_ even knew of it because he at least had the good sense to commune with his Soul Gem and doll in private— but because of a particular plot she had set into motion the morning before she and her second set out from camp.

A strike against the Companions of Jorrvaskr. The Companions, warriors with roots deep in Skyrim’s history, were tainted with lycanthropy. Their most honored members purposefully infected each new generation, who would in turn infect the ones that came after them, as it had been for hundreds of years now.

While Ranon followed Krev’s orders perfectly and completed every mission in full and led every force he commanded to victory, she was well aware that he had only joined the Silver Hand because he had nothing better to do. He did not hate or fear or thirst for revenge against the lycanthropes the way most others in the Hand did. He had little feeling about anything at all, truth told. He only followed Krev the Skinner because she gave him something to do— activity to pass the time until he could join his wife and child in death.

He still had his own way, his own code. Just like he ate only meat and vegetables, and just like he only drank water, never mead or wine, he would never agree to hunt females or children, even if they were werewolves or vampires.

This wasn’t usually a problem. Somehow it was that werewolves tended to be male somewhat more often than they were female, and in the cases of hunting females the Skinner had plenty of others in her band that didn’t have the qualms that Ranon did. Werewolf children were, thankfully, so rare that in her time as a werewolf hunter Krev had not come across a single one. Though she knew she would do her duty if she did.

Still, it was always best that Ranon not know about women and children if they needed to be dealt with. It wasn’t that Krev had any fear of him leaving her side. In fact, she was fairly certain he wouldn’t bother to go unless she dismissed him. But he _had_ been known to slaughter members of the Silver Hand who bragged aloud of killing females or children, werewolves or not. She chalked it up to his madness. Perhaps all women and children reminded him of his dead wife and child.

It was better, yes, better that he didn’t know of her plans for the Companions. Plans that involved a young female werewolf being the first to die.

The Skinner waved a hand, indicating the world outside the old house’s doorless portal. “I had my scouts spread out and mark what was perspective, but I should choose our fortress myself, and with great care. Location and privacy are of the greatest importance.”

“You’ll get your location and privacy,” Ranon said in the same mild, emotionless tone he always used. “Because this land almost has more ruins, barrows, and fortresses than it does mountains. But it’s likely we’re going to end up with an abandoned Imperial fort or watchtower, and you know how the Empire is. They build things, but don’t put up the gold for the upkeep. The ancient stone and mortar crumble with time and weather. Those won’t always be easy to secure.”

“I might find an old mine big enough to suit our needs. Or…” She grinned. “I’ve had this idea of founding a town somewhere. The Silver Hand has enough members with a variety of trade skills. Hunters, farmers, blacksmiths. We could be self-sufficient instead of scrounging for supplies and trading in the Hold cities. Some of us could set up a sawmill or take to trading, bring in a little gold for daily living while we fight our cause.”

He looked up from his task of cutting chunks of venison for the pot, his bronze eyes half-lidded. “I speak of security and you think of building a town?”

Krev refused to be criticized. “The town would be a front. To all observing eyes, a simple small town full of simple people with small concerns. As well as a place for some of our number to do things they aren’t getting to do living in our camps, like advance their trades or be with their families.”

His face thoughtful, Ranon carried the pot full of meat, vegetables, and onions to the crumbled hearth and hung it over the ashes of last night’s fire. He added water from the bucket filled from the nearby stream and picked up a stick to stir the embers.

After a while he said, “The idea of a town for the Hand has merit, I suppose. But listen, Chief, I know you like to think of those we hunt as diseased animals, but the fact is they have minds like everyone else. If they got so much as an inkling that the people of this ‘simple town’ are really the Silver Hand they’ll find a little unwalled town easy to attack, especially if they gather in numbers and organize themselves. If you build a town, we’re still going to need a fort from which to assemble our forces, launch our attacks, and let your…alchemist…perform his experiments.”

Krev, who was packing their gear while Ranon busied himself preparing the meal, considered his words and then nodded at their wisdom. This was why she kept this man around. Whether he was a little mad or not, he had some brains, and she appreciated the way he thought over problems and solutions from so many angles.

He cooked well, too. Their meal was savory, and once their bellies were full and their dishes washed and packed they got on the road, heading northeast from Falkreath.

Nearby, wolves howled, their voices carried on the wind. Even though she knew they were just ordinary beasts she still drew her sword with one hand and caressed the hilt of her sheathed skinning knife with the other, smiling in anticipation.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Papa, I f-feel dizzy…”

Kodlak, his teeth grinding, supported the upper part of Aeyslinn’s body so that her legs were up on her bed and her head hung down, and he had her nose firmly pinched with a bloody rag, trying to stop the _goddamned_ nosebleed.

With effort, he managed to keep his voice steady. “Well, you better bear up right now, young lady, because if you let this get the better of you, I’ll come into Sovnguarde after you, take you over my knee, and tan your hide with my belt until my arm tires. In front of Shor, Ysgramor, and everyone else.”

He felt her try to smile underneath the rag, but he could also feel her body trembling uncontrollably in his arms, her nerves shattered after the fit. The fit was long over, but the nosebleed that came after just wouldn’t end. Blood was all over her nightgown and bedcovers and Kodlak’s tunic. He’d soaked through several rags trying to get it stopped, and if Vilkas and Farkas didn’t get back with one of the healers soon, there was a very real possibility that Aeyslinn was going to bleed to death right here in his arms.

An eternity passed before he finally heard Farkas’s thumping footfalls in the hallway, followed closely by Danica. The priestess was not in her usual robes, and only had a fur cloak thrown over her long nightshirt, her hair loose and her feet bare.

Kodlak hauled Aeyslinn back into bed, and drew back just enough that Danica was able to put her hands out and double-cast a powerful healing spell. When the flow of magic stopped, Kodlak bent over Aeyslinn, pale and still trembling slightly on the bed, to see for himself that the nosebleed had at last stopped.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Kodlak paced the length of his study, at times peering into his bedchamber to check on Aeyslinn, who had been cleaned up and put to rest by yet another sleeping draught.

“Tell us what happened,” said Arcadia, standing beside Danica in the doorway. The herbalist had not been sleeping, but had been outside the city walls at the river, looking for nirnroot and luna moths in the darkness. Vilkas, who had been dispatched to find her while Farkas had gone to the temple to wake Danica, had been more than a little inconvenienced tracking her down. Consequently, the lad had been in a foul mood, and Kodlak had sent him and his brother to find their beds a short time ago. For Arcadia’s sake as much as the twins, since it was much easier for Arcadia to think and talk without Vilkas glaring at her like what happened to Aeyslinn was somehow her fault.

Aeyslinn had a fit in the night, her body stiff and convulsing as if she was stricken with mage-lightning, and she couldn’t even inhale until it was over. Then blood began to flow freely. He reported this in the same efficient manner he might give a field report, watching both women closely.

Danica was a priestess, versed in the school of Restoration. Under her healing magic, wounds would close, bones would knit together, and fevers could be cooled. But an herbalist would have a greater understanding of poisons, their effects on the body, and their remedies. So Danica’s eyes were on Arcadia.

The Imperial shifted uneasily. Then she glanced back and Danica, who nodded subtly and said to Kodlak, “Harbinger, I’ll go upstairs and help Tilma wash the…to wash Aeyslinn’s clothes and linens, and I might help her prepare breakfast if she’ll let me. I will stay nearby for a while in case you need me.”

Kodlak watched her go before turning his attention back to the herbalist. Many days ago, Aeyslinn had managed to make it home because of the faithfulness of Solarsetr, her stallion, who had carried her, feverish and weak, on his back all the way to Whiterun’s stables just outside the city. Since that day, Kodlak had had more opportunity to observe this woman than he had since she came to live in Whiterun years ago. He’d come to realize that while Arcadia was knowledgeable enough in her profession, she was a better businesswoman than she was a herbalist. Her passion and talent lay in commerce, and not truly in alchemy.

She must have come to that realization long before he, however, as she only hesitated a moment more before she pulled several folded papers from her cloak and offered them to him. “Harbinger, I’m no longer certain I have the knowledge or the skill to help Aeyslinn. She’s both young and strong, so I was so sure if we just eased the pain and inflammation, the poison would naturally burn itself out. But it seems like every time she looks like she’s improving and on the mend, suddenly completely different symptoms manifest, and so much worse than the ones before. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Kodlak, silent and listening, took the papers from her.

“But I do have enough good sense to contact those who are wiser and more experienced than I am. Days ago when Aeyslinn got the rashes I wrote to some of the alchemists in the other hold cities. These are a few of the letters that were delivered last evening.”

Kodlak unfolded some of the letters. The first was from an alchemist named Angeline in Solitude, who expressed sincere apologies and that she was just as at a loss as Arcadia as to what manner of poison afflicted Aeyslinn. He folded the letter and slipped it behind the others in his hand.

The next was from someone named Nurelion in Windhelm. His letter was brief but too esoteric for Kodlak to do more than skim over his opinions and suggestions, but Nurelion did invite Arcadia to bring “the ailing girl” to his place in Windhelm, where he might have a look at her and make a better diagnosis, if she was able to make the journey.

The next letter was from a man named Elgrim in Riften. He wrote suggestions to Arcadia, but at the bottom of his letter in a different hand were written enthusiastic questions about precisely what the poison was doing to Aeyslinn’s body, and to send all replies to Igun Black-Briar. If a fire had been handy, Kodlak might have tossed the letter into the blaze, but there wasn’t and his good sense told him that Elgrim’s reply might mean something to Arcadia and should be preserved just in case.

He opened the final letter and saw bold script, written with charcoal.

 

**Arcadia,**

**Show this letter to Kodlak Whitemane so that I can let him know what a stone-headed fool he is. Sixteen years ago, he brought this wild animal into my shop, and I help clean it up to find out there was a little girl underneath all that filth and matted hair. Then he left my shop, and not once in all these years did it ever occur to the fool to write me to let me know how the little daedra was getting along. No, only when he needs something do I get any word.**

**He named her “Aeyslinn”, did he? Well at least he had sense enough to come up with a proper name for her.**

**You wrote that Aeyslinn said she accepted a free mug of ale at a tavern, and supposes that was when she was poisoned. If the only real clue is that her poison was ingested, that doesn’t narrow it down much.**

**I can help, however. I’m sure of it. I cannot make the journey out to see her; my bones are already half dust and it’s more than I can manage to climb all these damned steps here in my home city. Kodlak will have to bring her to me once again.**

**Should he decide to, I’ve enclosed a vial I mixed especially for Aeyslinn. It’s a slightly altered stamina potion, worth twelve doses. Mix a spoon full into a bottle of ordinary potion of healing and make her drink it. It should help her make the journey here. Have him bring her in a caravan, do not allow her to walk, ride, or move around much. In her case, the less exercise the better.**

**If you’re reading this, Kodlak, then I urge you to come to me. What you’re dealing with is alchemy, but this also smacks of dark magic.**

**I will not go deeply into detail in a letter, but in the history of the Reachmen there was something like this, an unnatural and twisted creation by the ancient Hagravens used to devastate the strength of the ancient Nords. From what Arcadia has written, about how the signs of the illness fade away and then change to something completely different than before, my heart has been filled with dread that an evil knowledge that should have been forgotten has been unearthed somehow. I will explain more if you come to Markarth.**

**Kodlak, I think I knew even before you did that you had already taken that child into your heart. If I hadn’t been so certain, I would have offered to take her in. There was something special about her. The courage, the fearlessness in her eyes was something I don’t think I could ever forget. That kind of courage is very rare, Reachman or Nord. I know you’ve nurtured that, and raised her well.**

**Bothela**   
**Hag’s Cure,**   
**Markarth**

 

  
Kodlak cleared his throat as he folded the letter, feeling an odd mix of sheepishness and grave worry. All those years ago, he’d had no idea that the old woman would have given the two Companions or their wild child another thought once she’d shooed them out of her shop.

However, reading words of Reachmen alchemy and Hagraven magic infecting his daughter was deeply disturbing. Horrifying. He felt the stirrings of anger deep in his heart. Too, the questions still didn’t quite have answers. Just exactly who had done this to Aeyslinn? Why? And why go to such lengths as digging up some depraved Hagraven evil?

Arcadia was watching him with a bemused expression. “I should have just handed you that particular letter without bothering with the others, shouldn’t I?”

He placed the letters on his desk and swept up a pouch of Septims, which he pressed into Arcadia’s hand.

“Thank you for writing the letters, Arcadia,” he said. “I am grateful, because I think I would only have gathered my wits to seek outside help just now. If the other letters haven’t offered you any more wisdom, then I believe I will very well have to take my daughter to Markarth to visit our old friend. I need one more favor. Gather for me all the stamina potions you have ready-made, and also any herbs you think might be useful to ease and comfort her journey.”

“Of course, Harbinger. Send someone over as soon as you’re ready to leave, and I’ll have everything you need packed and ready.”

Arcadia went. Alone at last, Kodlak felt his years bearing down on him. The needs of the body would, at times, ignore even the most stubborn man’s will, so he went into his bedchamber and pulled up a chair so he could sit at Aeyslinn’s bedside.

He took her hand in his, reassured by the normal, feverless warmth of it. Her hands were the hands of a warrior, calloused by years of handling weapons and wearing gauntlets. Her hands were also those of a woman, with gracefully long fingers and oval-shaped nails. But her face, relaxed in sleep, made her seem five years younger than she really was.

Perhaps it was noticing her youth now, or Bothela’s words of the feral child Aeyslinn had been, but a memory came to Kodlak.

Once, when Aeyslinn was still very small, she had woken in the middle of the night, perhaps to find someplace to relieve herself. As it happened, this was a rare night that no one was in the mead hall, either out on assignment or sleeping in their beds, and so the little wild child was able to escape out the unguarded doors. She scampered down to the park, where she felt the need to climb up the Gildergreen. So it was, when the alarm was raised, Kodlak found himself in the park in nothing but his breechclout, trying to pull himself up the delicate branches of an ancient and revered tree after an alternately giggling and hissing feral child, while the twins—spotted-faced adolescents, then—stood below with a blanket stretched between them to catch Aeyslinn if she fell. The noise gradually attracted almost everyone living in the Wind District to come gather under the Gildergreen to watch.

Kodlak smiled to himself, keeping back laughter at the ridiculous old memory. He suspected that night had become part of Whiterun’s history for generations to come. Enthusiasm of its retellings never seemed to diminish, especially at the Bannered Mare where it was recounted over mugs and uproarious laughter, embellished beyond all recognition by the whims of whoever happened to be telling the story.

Then he caught sight of some bloody rags that he’d carelessly tossed in a dark corner and his smile faded. His face hardened. He had not worked so hard all these years to raise this girl, just to lose her almost as soon as she’d reached adulthood.

For a long time he sat there, thinking, and did not realize that he fell asleep in his chair until he woke to a touch of a hand on his cheek. Blinking awake, he looked down to see the pale face of his daughter. The hand on his face and the one still clasped in his own hands were cold and clammy. He leaned over to brush her forehead with a bewhiskered kiss, and added another kiss to the back of her hand.

If it meant a journey through each plane of Oblivion to save his daughter, he would go without hesitation. Compared to that, Markarth wasn’t so very far. He got up to find to find Skjor and the rest of the Circle, to let them know what must be done.


End file.
